Roshani Chokshi

But there was this art, this connection to the ancient world, to the myth of creation itself, and Enrique longed to be part of it

That was the first time he realized he could feel her smile. Like light pressing against closed lids. He blinked, opening his eyes, watching how her lips pulled into a grinning crescent. Since then, whenever she smiled, he remembered the flavor of that fruit tart, the tang of hibiscus and soft vanilla. Unexpected and sweet

“By all means, take your time. I love a good slow, painful death.”

“It’ll be ‘like dreaming,’ you said. As ‘easy as sleep’!”

“Nightmares are part of sleeping.”

She should have been more careful, but that was the problem with happiness. It blinds.

Séverin had called for a meeting once he and Enrique got back from their latest acquisition, which she knew was just a fancy word for “theft.”

“You’re covered in blood.”

Séverin glanced down at his clothes. “Surprisingly, it hasn’t escaped my attention.”

“I’ve given up on your soul,” said Enrique.

“You know how moths look at a fire and think, ‘Oooh! shiny!’ and then die in a burst of flames and regret?”

“Dangerous, yes, but the most rewarding things are,” said Séverin.